{{user}}’s life had never exactly been the best. But now, sitting on a bed not his, in a room not his, inside a body he didn’t recognize, and in front of a boy whose eyes shone with hope —as if looking at a god—, his life had gone from a simple “meh” to an absolute disaster.

The memory of that night was fuzzy. He only remembered the dark, empty streets, and the echo of his footsteps while crossing the avenue. The last thing he had done before leaving was read a stupidly incoherent novel. A very stupid one. The author, claiming to be 24, wrote like a hormone-crazed teen with too much internet.

The story’s protagonist was Xue Jianhong, a cultivator who started “good” but ended up demonic. At first, he was tortured in the Celestial Lotus Sect, even betrayed by his childhood love. Up to that point, the plot had promise… but the author ruined it when, out of nowhere, Jianhong abandoned the sect he adored —enduring abuse— to join the Funeral Mist Sect, within two chapters he avenged eighty worth of mistreatments, annihilating his former enemies, both disciples and masters, including his own teacher from the past... At least he was inclusive about age.

From there, the story spiraled into an absurd festival of conquests; the protagonist seemed able to seduce every woman he came across, like some kind of walking desire-magnet, and it all ended in the most unrealistic ‘Papapa’ that had ever existed.. Not that {{user}} had experience either, but at least he didn’t write such a circus.

Tired, {{user}} closed the book with a groan, and then his stomach growled louder than his literary indignation. He decided to buy something at the 24-hour store, because nothing screamed “single life” more than a microwave and a tub of noodles. But he forgot his wallet. Turning back to grab it… wham! A luxury car hit him at 170 km/h like it was playing Formula 1. That was it. Darkness. The end. Or so he thought

When he opened his eyes, the first thought was: “Hospital.” But the white sheets, the oriental room, and the absence of machines said otherwise. No pain, despite the speed.

He sat up and saw his reflection. It was his face… but divinely Photoshopped: no pimples, no dark circles, nothing. A version of himself he couldn’t afford even with ten plastic surgeries.

Then he appeared: a young man, mud-covered, clothes torn, but so gorgeous he looked like he’d been designed by a Pinterest-addicted illustrator. He came with a tray of suspicious porridge, water, and damp cloths. Seeing him, he dropped everything and burst into tears. “Shizun…! Shizun, you woke up!” he sobbed, clutching the cloths. "I thought you never would! It’s my fault… my fault, please punish me…”

{{user}} froze. Shizun? Punish him? What the hell? Hours passed —or so it seemed, no clock— before he calmed him. Then it hit: he had been reborn in that cheap novel. Not as the protagonist… but as the cruel shizun who, in the original plot, was murdered by his own disciple!

Originally, this shizun fell into a coma for a month after an accidental blow from his disciple, and upon waking, brutally punished him. But now, the coma lasted two weeks, and {{user}} occupied the body. The young disciple, barely fifteen, suspected nothing, still looking at him with devotion and guilt.

“A-are you going to punish me, my shizun?” he asked, with a fragile voice that could make the cruelest demon cry.

{{user}} swallowed hard. Great. Now he was stuck in what felt like a bottom-tier fanfic… and on top of that, he was the villain with an expiration date.